


il notturno

by boom_slap



Series: symphonies and other things [3]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: "The first reunion is not an easy one. Nairobi isn’t there and Martín feels like it’s him who should be absent."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote & Professor | Sergio Marquina
Series: symphonies and other things [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774996
Comments: 16
Kudos: 85





	il notturno

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome you, once again, to the angst-fest

The first reunion is not an easy one. Nairobi isn’t there and Martín feels like it’s him who should be absent.

He’s been doing okay, but now, with the rest of their team there, he’s falling apart. _Chaos makes no noise_ , he had told Sergio once, and that’s what’s happening to him now. He goes into hiding, becomes Palermo again, shutting everyone out - including Mirko. Not that he wants to; he has to, because Mirko would tear down his walls in less than a second and he can’t let that happen in front of the others. 

He smirks, he snarls and he drinks. Tokio keeps piercing him with her gaze, but she’s not the worst - Bogotá is.

They were never _friends_ -

( _because Martín has only had one friend, one person he’s trusted, one person he’s loved_ )

\- but they were on good terms.

Now, Bogotá is looking at him with disappointment. Martín wonders if Bogotá is disappointed in his actions, or if it’s the fact that he’s still breathing that’s so offensive. 

He tries not to wonder anymore; he reaches for the bottle of rum and pours himself a full glass. He feels Mirko’s gaze on him, now, as he gulps down the alcohol, almost reveling in the way it’s burning his throat.

He drinks so that the world gets more blurry, but still, he can feel the looks. It’s maddening. Luckily, the conversations are mostly about nothing; about their travels, about Cincinnati, about food.

That is, until Mirko, dumb, naive Mirko gets up, pulls out his cigarettes and looks down at Martín.

“Do you want one, _gatito_?”

The endearment used to feel like a soft pillow and a warm blanket, like a pair of arms wrapping themselves around him in the dark. 

Now, it feels like taking a blunt knife to his back.

Martín doesn’t react; he drops his gaze and waits. What happens is exactly what he’d expected.

“Helsinki…“ Tokio begins, disbelieving. There’s a faint warning in her voice, too.

“Wait. Are you two- together?” Estocolmo asks.

“Yes,” Mirko says and Martín prays for the earth to open up and swallow him before he has to deal with-

“But he’s been such an asshole to you!”

-with that.

Denver sounds scandalized and Martín doesn’t blame him. The kid has heard Palermo’s speech in the Bank, after all. More than that, he’s heard him call Helsinki his whore in front of the entire team.

( _it was him who_ _was the whore, all along, looking to get laid in the sacred place where he’s shared his last moments with Andrés; he was the cheater, the traitor, the-_ )

“ _That_ piece of shit, Helsinki, really?!”

“Tokio, stop it,” Mirko barks, some anger creeping into his voice, but she’s unstoppable, as always.

“What would Nairobi say? It’s his fault that she’s _gone!_ ”

There’s so much pain in her voice that Martín almost feels sorry for her. Not to mention the fact that she’s right.

“Tokio, Palermo made a mistake-” it’s Sergio now, trying to reason, not realizing that the subject is too raw, too awful to approach it this way.

“He’s made a fuckton of mistakes,” Bogotá says, cold and detached. Still, Martín can sense his anger. “Since we’ve stepped into that damned monastery, he only cared about the version of the plan that he and Berlín have come up with, he only cared about the gold, _never_ about any of us, he’s been fucking up from the first minute inside the Bank. Remember what he had said after Gandia escaped? _Collateral fucking damage_ , that’s what he’s called both Nairobi and _you_ , Helsinki.”

Martín flinches when he feels Mirko’s hand on his shoulder; he shakes it off and reaches for the bottle of rum, not caring about pouring it into a glass anymore.

“You don’t know him,” Mirko shakes his head and Martín considers breaking the bottle and swallowing the sharp pieces. Instead, he takes a swig. He’s smashed at this point; he doesn’t give a damn.

Bogotá is still speaking.

“I’ve met him before you have, and all I could see was the way he was _obsessed_ with Andrés-”

Martín jumps to his feet, completely blinded by fury as he takes his abandoned glass and smashes it against the table.

“Don’t you _dare_ mention his name!” he yells, because he’s _faithful_ and because nobody, no one but him and Sergio should be ever allowed to utter the name.

“See?” Tokio chimes in; she’s talking to Mirko, pointing at Martín with a shaking hand. “That’s all he cares about! He’s not right for you, Nairobi would never let you do that, you know that!”

“Helsinki, she’s kinda right, Nairobi would never-” Denver’s voice is less assured, but Tokio picks it up right away.

“It’s not _right_ , it’s an offense to her!”

“Tokio,” Lisboa speaks up; Martín can hear the frown she must be wearing, even though he can’t see it. He can barely see anything, whatever untouched by the glass in the Bank now being blurred out by the alcohol.

“No!” Tokio snaps. “Out of everyone here, Helsinki should be the last person to even fucking _look_ at Palermo! Palermo set Gandia free, Gandia killed Nairobi, it’s clear, isn’t it?”

Martín senses that both Mirko and Sergio are about to speak up; he hears them both take a deep breath, so he starts talking before either of them can open their mouths.

“It is,” he says, feeling his accent thicken as he desperately tries to gather enough composure to answer sternly. “Her death was my fault, I’ve never given a fuck about any of you and I’ve used Helsinki to get laid.”

There is a heavy silence after his words. He turns to Mirko, but doesn’t look him in the eye, feeling sick, feeling frightened and desperate and more lonely than ever.

“I’ve lied to you. About everything. It’s been nice, getting a fuck out of you every other night, but that’s enough. I’m done. So, you can- I don’t know if you want to travel alone or with any of these fuckers, and I don’t care.”

Mirko reaches for him and once again, he pulls away, finally looking up and being grateful for his state and his fucked-up sight that doesn’t let him see very clearly.

“ _What_? What do you want? For me to be all lovely, call you _Helsi_ maybe, be your little wife, or do you want to be mine?”

It’s Mirko who flinches now, who shudders and takes a step back.

“Palermo, stop it,” he says and Martín knows he’s winning, but he can’t let Mirko speak, because everything would fall to pieces. The pain and hurt are still roaring inside him and for once, he wants to put them to good use.

“You thought you could replace him, maybe? _Him_? Who spoke in poetry, who was such an artist, so handsome, lean, elegant, beautiful? You could _never,”_ he spits.

It causes an uproar. Bogotá doesn’t really move, having said what he had wanted, but Tokio is reaching for the gun she keeps strapped to her thigh, Lisboa catching her wrist to stop her from pointing it at Palermo. Denver is yelling something about Helsinki being too good, with Rio nodding along, both od their faces flushed with anger as Estocolmo tries to get them to calm down.

Sergio grabs Martín’s arm and wrenches him away from the table. Mirko steps away, too, his face twisted in pain judging from what Martín can make out in the messy picture before his eyes. Martín feels like he’s going to either throw up or cry; or both. Mirko takes one last look at all of them and he storms off. It’s Raquel who follows him, while Tokio starts screaming and throwing insults again, and everything is so loud, so much, Martín wants to crawl into a hole and _die._

( _he wants to crawl into bed, with Mirko, and sleep, and be peaceful_ )

He’s shocked when Sergio moves to stand in front of him, facing the others, _sheltering_ him from the curses and the glares.

“Enough!” he yells, which happens so rarely that everyone does, in fact, shut up. “I don’t recognize you. I know the situation is different, I know nobody here will ever accept what has happened to Nairobi, but you’re forgetting he's a _family member_.”

“He’s not my family,” Bogotá says, gruff and bitter.

“Everyone here is family. And everyone has made mistakes, at some point.”

“Not like-” Tokio starts, but Estocolmo cuts in.

“We wouldn’t have gone back and into the Bank if it weren’t for you and Río,” she says, quiet but confident.

“It’s not the same! What he had done was thought-through, he’s intentionally put us all at risk!”

Martín doesn’t listen anymore. He takes a quiet step back, then another one, unsteady, but careful. Then, he turns around and goes back into the house.

He stops by the kitchen to take another bottle of - well, _something_ , he doesn’t really check, before hiding in his - _their_ \- room.

There are sobs tearing their way out of his chest now, so he curls up on the bed and swallows the alcohol until he can’t cry anymore, until his mind is so clouded that he can barely remember his own name; he presses his face to the pillow and even as he loses consciousness, he still misses the warm arms around him.

He wakes up alone and spends the morning hunched over the toilet, vomiting. Every time he tries to get to his feet, another wave of nausea hits him and brings him back to his knees. He feels utterly disgusting. He rests his head against the cold porcelan and closes his eyes. 

That’s how Estocolmo finds him.

“Go away,” he rasps, tears running down his face from the bitter burning in his throat. He exhales shakily when Estocolmo strokes his back and hands him a glass of water. He gulps it down and finally looks at her as she pushes his hair back from his forehead, her hand cold and soothing.

“Come on, Palermo,” she says and pulls him to his feet, presses a toothbrush into his hand. “There are painkillers waiting for you in your room. The Professor is there, too, he wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks,” Martín croaks, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

Sergio looks worried. Martín swallows the pills and sits down on the bed.

“You have to apologize,” Sergio says and Martín laughs, shaking his head.

“You don’t get it. Everyone-... everyone was right. Nairobi should be here and I shouldn’t. And Mirko _is_ too good for me. I had to- had to hurt him now to spare him the pain in the long run.”

“Bullshit.”

Martín groans, hiding his face in his hands.

“You just don’t-”

“I’ve heard a variation of that excuse once,” Sergio’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. “From an idiot I once knew, who thought that he needed to cut all the ties for the sake of saving his friend. I’ve agreed with him, and I’ve done the same, and I still regret it, Martín.”

Slowly, he looks up at Sergio, whose gaze is soft, but determined. Martín is speechless. His head hurts, his whole body hurts, and he remembers the maddening pain, the misery, the hopelessness, the guilt, the confusion.

He remembers all of it and he stares.

“...where is Mirko?” he asks, quietly.

“Raquel took him to the city. I believe both of you need a day to think things through.”

“The others..?”

Sergio actually smiles at that.

“Let’s say I gave them a piece of my mind. They love overlooking their own faults. I’m not saying that there is an excuse for what you’ve done. There isn't. But I do believe that the final consequences were not in your plan. I do believe your pain and your regret. You have to work to get their trust, Martín,” Sergio sighs, leaning back. “You used to love a challenge. How about the challenge being, for once, happiness. Making Helsinki happy. Being happy yourself, can you imagine that?”

“Fucking hell, Sergio, since when have you gone so soft?”

“Since I’ve let Oslo and Moscú die. Since I’ve lost Andrés. Nairobi. Since I’ve almost lost Raquel.”

Martín stares at him; sees the nervousness, the exhaustion, the sadness. He wraps an arm around Sergio’s shoulders and smiles when he leans in.

“Alright. Stop worrying. I’m going to talk to Mirko when he comes back. If he doesn’t forgive, well, I might just off myself. That option doesn’t seem too bad, does it?” he laughs at Sergio’s face and ruffles his hair. “I’m kidding.”

“I know you’re not,” Sergio says and he gives a small, miserable smile. Martín sighs and flops onto his back.

“Go, I’ll be good. I need a nap and a shower.”

Martín tries, he _really_ does. He owes Mirko an explanation, because leaving him with nothing but doubt would be… cruel.

He makes himself look presentable, although his headache is still there and his reflection in the mirror is pale and ghostly, his eyes still red. He itches for a drink, but instead, he listens to music and forces himself to wait. He can do this.

It’s already sunset when finally, he hears footsteps, so he sits up and watches as Mirko walks into the room.

He looks _tired._

He takes a look at Martín and immediately drops his gaze.

“Can we talk?” Martín asks, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Sure.”

Hearing Mirko’s voice is like a wave of relief crashing into him, even if it’s quiet and carefully neutral. It’s been barely twenty four hours and Martín has _missed_ it, desperately so. It’s comforting and familiar and-

“ _Te amo_.”

The words escape his mouth without any permission. He had a whole speech prepared and it’s already gone to hell.

They both stare at each other, too shocked to do anything.

That is, until Mirko turns on his heel and reaches for the door.

Martín’s body is quicker than his brain. He jumps to the door and presses his back against it, shaking his head, looking up at Mirko with wide eyes.

“No, no, no, no, wait, just- _wait,_ let me- I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Let me explain. _Please_ , let me explain,” he mumbles, pure panic squeezing his chest as he raises his arms as if to say: _I’m unarmed._ Mirko frowns, hurt and confused, and Martín feels like wailing.

“Sit down?” he asks. “Please?”

Mirko nods slowly and takes a seat at the edge of the bed. Without thinking much, Martín kneels down in front of him.

“Look, here’s the thing, I’m a huge asshole, and I hurt you, but only because I don’t deserve you. I would rather be dead, I really would, I would rather you had Nairobi here instead of me, maybe you could then find some good man who would be nice to you, who wouldn’t be a miserable, hateful piece of shit. What I said yesterday- it was kind of true, I mean-”

He pauses because Mirko’s eyes widen and he looks heartbroken. God, Martín really is the worst.

“No, _no_ , Mirko! It was kind of true because I do like the sex and because all of it _is_ my fault, and- yes, you could never replace Andrés and _thank fuck for that,_ ” he laughs, helpless and pathetic, tears filling his eyes. “Thank fuck for that, because Andrés was complicated, and confusing, and he broke me to pieces, but you, you’re so _clear_.”

“What do you mean,” Mirko’s voice is hoarse and he’s staring down at Martín as if he’s desperate to understand him, “ _clear_?”

“I mean that you’re good and you make everything simple, and quiet, and calm, and wonderful, and I love you, I really do, I love you _so much_ , and I never told Andrés that because I was too scared, but I’m not scared to tell you, because you would never hurt me.”

“I hurt you yesterday, _gatito_ ,” Mirko says, frowning. Martín sits back on his heels, stupefied.

“What,” he says, “the fuck?”

“I didn’t defend you. I should have.”

“You tried, but it’s hard to defend someone against the truth.”

“I left you alone.”

“Because you were _hurt_ , by me! You get to be angry! You should be. Come here,” he reaches up, climbs into Mirko’s lap, wraps his arms around his neck and strokes his bald head. “You get to be angry with me and you get to walk away. I’ll let you, I don’t want to, but I’ll let you.”

Mirko sighs deeply, hugging Martín close. He nuzzles his neck and presses a kiss there.

“I’m not leaving,” he says. “I want you to go to the others with me. Let me show them who you are.”

Martín closes his eyes for a moment. Then, he nods.

“Okay. In a moment.”

Downstairs, the group is enjoying a dinner. As they step out onto the patio, Martín immediately wants to pull away, but Mirko keeps an arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders.

Tokio winces at them, and Río exchanges a look with Denver, but before anyone can say anything, Marsella of all people speaks up.

“Let them fucking live, I swear to God,” he grumbles, looking up at them and gesturing to the vacant seats next to him.

They sit down and Martín stares at Tokio, Río and Denver, reaching for Mirko’s big hand and squeezing it with both of his own.

“It’s his decision,” he says, his voice strained. “Don’t you dare make him feel guilty about it.”

They look mildly surprised; Sergio smiles a little.

“If you hurt him-” Tokio starts, but Martín cuts in.

“Then you can have my head. It’s a fair deal.”

The conflict goes too deep, but the compromise is the only one they can come up with. There’s a dark, twisted part of Martín that thinks this isn’t right; if only he was allowed to stay with Andrés, he would have fulfilled his destiny of loving him quietly until the very end.

( _until following him into death_ )

This is way harder and the pain is more visceral. He has to love out loud, and defend it. It’s worth it, though, because Mirko presses a kiss to his temple and pulls him closer; because he’s so _warm_ and he has Martín’s back.

Martín relaxes into him and thinks: _I’m going to show them, no matter what._ Sergio was right. He loves a challenge.


End file.
